Splintered Crystal
by Binkmeister
Summary: A young boy, taken violently from his home and family, grows up in an unkind environment. His childhood grooms him for one thing, but he will become something else entirely.


**Splintered**** Crystal**

_**Note**__: Names and history are based on the __**Firefly**__ TV series and movie __**Serenity**__. As far as I'm concerned, those are the only canon sources, regardless of what Joss Whedon or actors may say in other venues._

The little boy's feet skidded on a blood-slicked marble floor, but he didn't fall. Nimble six-year-old legs avoided the worst of the sticky puddles as he ran down a long hallway, away from the noise and terrible people that invaded his home. Bodies of household security lay sprawled in vivid red puddles. None moved.

Gasping, the boy finally reached a pair of large, glass-paned doors. His hands left bloody streaks as he fumbled the delicate, archaic latch and flung himself into the relative safety of the library. The carnage inside was less; only a few adult forms lay sprawled on the expensive carpet. Leather-bound books from Earth-that-was had tumbled onto the floor, some soaking up still-wet blood. A fortune in memorabilia lay among the ruined lives, unheeded by the little boy as he stumbled to a woman's body. Large red stains covered the front of her stylish blouse.

"Mama."

He didn't cry. He didn't run. He'd known what he would find, but he had to see it. Standing, he turned back to the door as it swung back open. Combat-ready forms moved through, crouching behind their weapons, fanning out and surrounding the small black child. Back straight, he watched them level death at him.

An officer, cap jauntily askew, entered behind the safety of his squad. A quick glance showed the situation: a six year old child standing over his dead mother in a private library filled with corpses. The man sauntered to the side bar, opened a crystal decanter of cognac, poured a large amount into a snifter, and smiled at the boy.

"Don't worry, son. You're safe." He gestured, and his squad lowered their weapons. "I'm sure you're confused about our visit." A small sneer curved his lip as he pronounced the last word. "I know you won't understand why, but this was necessary. It's only proper form to let the last survivor of a major house know why we are here, even if you won't understand a word I say." The Alliance captain, whose family had no status or standing, had been ordered to make this speech. He may not have understood the orders of his betters, but he did not question them.

The boy didn't move, and the captain continued. "Your parents, very rich and fine as they were, didn't pay proper respect to the Alliance. They may have been influential, but they opposed the majority of the founding houses. In accordance with established Alliance legal forms, your family was declared rogue and an elimination order was issued. Should any minors survive," and here the captain showed the barest display of emotion, "they were to be offered the option of repatriation to a different family." He paused, then broke off his obviously prepared speech. "That means you can choose to live with another family. Do you know what will happen if you don't choose that?" He took the crystal stopper from the cognac bottle, and dropped it onto a heavy stone table. It shattered.

The boy looked down at his mother's corpse. He nodded once, and the captain had no doubt the child was aware of the alternative.

Switching back to his rote speech, the captain said, "Do you elect repatriation? Answer yes or no."

The boy nodded, then added, "Yes."

The captain paused, then abruptly put down his drink, untasted. Turning to his squad, he muttered, "Bring him," and strode out of the library. Behind him, a squad member brought out a blunt-nosed stunner and pointed it at the boy. A twangy sound, and Derria went limp. His last glimpse of his old life was of a blood-soaked book.

* * *

Math, science, mechanics came easily. At twelve, Derria excelled in most of his private classes, outstripping his older step-brother. Well, maybe not exactly "step" but that was how they insisted he refer to Jonas.

The eldest scion of a wealthy house, Jonas was destined to become an influential man in the recently-stabilized Alliance, and he knew it. The only reason Jonas continued to excel was his fear of his father, whose belt strap was applied often and vigorously. Jonas sat across the wide oak table from Derria as they studied history.

"They were so stupid. I can't believe there were twelve billion people on one planet." History was not Jonas' favourite subject.

Against his normal habit, Derria looked up. "Why do you say they were stupid? They left, didn't they?"

Jonas sneered. "Shows what you know, runt. One world government, and they couldn't even control population. They used up their world and had to make more to hold everyone. I mean, how hard would it have been to just sterilize all the lower classes? You'd have less people in a generation or two. Problem solved."

Despite himself, Derria felt this stupidity needed an answer. "Then who would be there to do the actual work, so the aristocrats would be able to live posh? You can't just cut back like that, everything would've collapsed."

"Oh God, here we go again, moralizing from a child. Too bad the 'verse isn't as simple as you think it is."

Knowing he couldn't win even this simple and obvious an argument with his thick-headed sib, Derria simply shrugged and bent back to his books. He only had another hour before he could go to his step-parents' large garage complex and work on some of the skimmers and grav-effect vehicles with the chief mechanic. The times he spent digging into the guts of a partially-dissected car or shuttle were his favourite parts of the day. They distracted him from the constant gnawing in his stomach, the feeling that he was made of crystal and the wrong tap would send him shattering in a million little shards. Machines were something he could get his hands on and understand.

People were never that simple to comprehend.

His step parents were decent enough to him, he supposed, and never ever mentioned how he came to them one day, half-conscious and wrapped in a bloody blanket. But he remembered, and he would never forget waking in a large, soft bed. A bed that was to be his from then on. He was forbidden to talk of his past life, but that was his new family's only hard-and-fast rule.

He was theirs, always. Never tell anyone different. Never mention the difference in skin tones, nor the slightly different dialects of Chinese they spoke. In all, they were kind in their own distracted way. Even Jonas was easy to put up with most of the time, despite his arrogance and being two years older.

The history study ended on time, and Derria eagerly gathered his books before starting toward the garage. But a tall man in an immaculate suit blocked the doorway. Startled, Derria stopped but did not back up.

"Excellent reflexes. You'll do well." The voice was deep and cultured. His silver hair was greased down, in the style of the time, and smelled faintly of exotic fruits. He made no move to allow Derria to pass.

The boy looked up. "Excuse me," he said, but the man still did not move. "I need to go through the door." When the man continued to stand in the door frame, Derria turned around and started toward the door in the opposite wall, where Jonas had exited earlier. Before he'd taken one step, he felt the air whoosh out of his lungs, and he realized he was on the floor, looking up.

"Don't ever turn your back on somebody who might be an enemy."

Derria's first lesson with Parliament Security Forces had begun.

* * *

A rapier whizzed just in front of Derria's face guard as he dodged and countererd. His riposte was classic textbook, but just a little too slow. His opponent flicked a wrist, and Derria's arm received a very slight electric shock – not enough to wound, but enough to startle. He backed up, looking for time to compose himself. His opponent closed in for the touch, and a buzzer went off. Derria lost. The fencers shook left hands and left the pisté.

Weapons training was not Derria's favourite thing, but there were some lessons in his new schedule that were intriguing. As a second scion of a wealthy family, Derria had few options that would not threaten Jonas' future. His step parents decided they would submit him for training as a Parliament Operative, one of a secret class of intelligent and highly trained agents. Little known, they ensured the safety and well-being of every member of the Alliance.

Or so they said. Derria was beginning to have doubts about that.

The training took him out of his parents' household for days and weeks at a time. This was good. He got to travel in large ships to other planets, see other classes of people, and learn a great deal about people who were from a different social strata. He learned of miners, beggars, workers, farmers, whores, tinkers, artisans, and other no-accounts. And unlike most of his social class, he not only learned, but sympathized. They were just like him in many ways – thrust into a 'verse they didn't make, couldn't change.

His first kill was at 17.

The training exercise seemed routine: drop into a shanty town on an outer rim planet, locate the informant, and exchange documents for coin. But it went wrong. Derria was in a bar, looking too young and too out of place. The locals didn't take to his accent or bearing, and started roughing him up. He could easily have left, but his pride prevented him from leaving before his mission was complete.

Things started to get out of hand when ceramic beer bottles were broken and the roughened edges waved at Derria. A local tough, missing teeth but well equipped with greasy hair, staggered forward and swung a bottle toward Derria's head. His training took over and before he really even knew what was happening, the greasy-haired tough was on the floor twitching. The room went deadly silent, until a high pitched wailing, almost ultrasonic, pierced the room. Tiny feet pattered through the legs of the watching crowd, and a small child flung itself on the now-still form on the floor.

"Papa!" The little girl cried until a woman pried the child loose and held her, face buried in dirty blonde hair.

Derria stood, unable to move, memories a decade old coming to his mind's eye. He felt like a vibrating crystal with a flaw running deep through its grain, ready to shatter at the least touch. Every muscle was tight. All the locals were looking at him, eyes narrowed. But the look on Derria's face stopped them, and nobody made a move as he turned his back and strode out of the bar.

* * *

"No sir."

"Excuse me, Mister?" The disbelief was obvious on the man's face. His silver hair was uncharacteristically mussed.

"I said, I can't continue the training regimen, sir. Personal reasons." Derria stood firm.

"This is not some rich kid's prep school where you can just walk away," he growled. "You have been given some very specific knowledge and abilities. You are special."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm not. I'm just a person, like any other."

Silver hair shook again. "I've never seen the like. Somebody of your station simply walking away from the Parliament. You realize, this simply isn't done."

"But I'm doing it."

"I've read the incident report. You were completely in the clear to terminate the threat. Why are you so squeamish?"

"I have no qualms about defending myself. I have qualms about killing others for a principal that I don't adhere to."

"I see. And you just discovered this, did you?" Derria nodded. Looking across the table at this man with his soul wrapped in amber, Derria knew he had to get out, or risk becoming just like him. Or becoming dead prematurely.

The older man strode to a large desk and sat down, pulled out a flimsy, scrolled down to the bottom. "You've done well in your studies, but your psych profile has always been iffy. You know that, don't you?" Derria nodded again. He'd known. "Under any other circumstances, and if you weren't the… son… of somebody very respectable, there would be no question of your leaving. You would simply disappear. But we both know your father won't allow that. Is this your final decision?"

Derria didn't hesitate. "It is."

A document skidded across the polished wood. "Sign that and get out."

* * *

The ship was dilapidated, but serviceable. Derria pestered the mechanic during the entire four day journey to Persephone. The mechanic tolerated the teenager's curiosity and showed him the workings of the old Firefly. It fluttered through the air, buffeted by winds of re-entry as the ship came to rest on the Eavesdown dock.

The hatch opened, and Derria strode through the door and walked to the edge of town, where he met a man with a cart. He offered to pull the cart a while, and the man gave him a piece of bread in return. When Derria asked if there was a place to sleep nearby, the other pointed to a small set of buildings on a hilltop, just outside the city limits. "I hear tell Southdown Abbey has a place for travellers," he said. Derria thanked him and followed the sunset to where the man had pointed.

At the gate, a plainly-dressed man greeted him, wishing him a pleasant evening and asking what he could do for the young man at his door.

"Just a place to stay for the night, if you have something."

"Of course, we always have room for fellow creatures of God," the man replied. "What may we call you?"

Derria noticed the careful phrasing. They must get people here often who are running from something. Derria wasn't sure if he was running away or towards anything, but he knew he was running. Searching his memory for a pleasant experience, something to be identified with, his mind flashed back to that six year old boy standing in a library. That was the last moment of his real life, and he needed something that was real, something he could believe in. He recalled his mother's body and the last thing he saw before being stunned. The last thing before his world was shattered.

"Book," he said, and followed the shepherd into the Abbey.


End file.
